"Caleb. Caleb! Kaay-lubb! Come back here this
minute. Do you hear me? Get yourself back here..."

I hate Aunt Sara. I hateherIhateherIhateher.

Caleb was running with Aunt Sara yelling behind him, her words falling
like hot hail around him. He didn't look back, he ran. Past the Jackson's
picture (no stopping to kneel, no time, and besides, Papa never had),
out the door and through the white columns, down the steps, and out
onto the hard clay walk (careful, jump over the broken bits of old brick,
chunks of asphalt and concrete, great way to sprain an ankle, and then
she would catch him), and into the gardens. Max ran behind Caleb,
his high quick bark a counterpoint to Aunt Sara's yelling.

"KKKaaaaayyyy-lllubbbbb! You are going to be sorry, you'll wish you
had never been born, you little good-for-nothing brat."

She stopped. Caleb darted behind a tree and risked a quick look behind
him. Aunt Sara had gone back inside Jackson, no doubt with smoke pouring
out of her nostrils. God, he hated her. No point in going back in until
she had cooled off. Davy was asleep; he'd be all right. Now, where was
Max?

Caleb stood ankle-deep in the last of the predawn fog, a damp white-greyness
which drifted across and around tree trunks, softening and obscuring
the edges of the chunks of sidewalk and street, the brick walls still
standing, and what was left of the tribal garden. The two night-watchers
stood at opposite ends of the garden. One covered a yawn, swallowed
air, glanced disinterestedly at Caleb, nodded, and turned away. The
other didn't even bother to cover his mouth. Caleb felt his face grow
warm; the two men had seen everything, heard everything. And would tell
everybody. Well, it wasn't the first time he had come tearing out of
Jackson with Aunt Sara yelling behind him. At least this time she hadn't
thrown rocks and rotten vegetables at him, Caleb thought as he touched
the fresh scar on his leg from that episode.

They shouldn't be watching me, anyway. They are supposed to be watching
for Lindauzi. The monsters and their hounds could sneak up on these
two sleepyheads and it'd all be over in a minute. Max?

"Max? Max, here, here boy."

The sky was still grey-blue, and sprinkled with stars, a fading moon.
The garden was mostly weeds now, with only a few cornstalks still standing,
brown and brittle, dead vines, empty beanpoles. Only the pumpkins were
left, scattered about like the plastic balls Caleb had once found in
the Mall with Papa. It was as if some giant child out of the fairy tales
had been playing and forgotten to pick up his toys. The trees were just
beginning to change color: the maple leaves were both green and red-gold,
as if there was a hidden fire inside, slowly burning.

Ah, there was Max. Caleb could see the dog's tail in the middle of
the garden, wagging in what was left of the squash and cucumber vines,
a dark brown wiry antenna. "Stay, boy, I'm coming." Caleb made his way
through the weeds, dead cornstalks, beanpoles and more weeds until he
found Max snuffling around what looked like the remains of a very large
and quite dead rat. The dog looked up and barked at Caleb: neatstuffhuhcanweplaywithithuhhuh?

"No, we can't. C'mon, boy," Caleb said and scooped the dog up. He made
his way through the rest of the garden and then down another clay path,
bordered on both sides by asphalt and cement chunks. The farther away
from Aunt Sara the better. He went past the old kiln, the silver maples,
and then down into the street. Caleb walked carefully there, as the
tribe hadn't bothered to clear out what was left of the old pavement.
Grass and weeds had split the pavement into irregular chunks of different
sizes and shapes. The tangle of weeds made it hard to see where to walk
on the uneven surfaces. Caleb stepped gingerly, with Max whimpering
in his arms.

She called me a dirty little halver. A foul-mouthed brat. Just because
I yelled at her in Lindauzi. So what? She'd be even angrier if she knew
what I said in Lindauzi. Call me a halver. I wish I was fourteen --
she couldn't bother me then, I'd be an adult. I'd take Davy and tell
her to go to hell. I hate herIhateherIhateher.

But he was only eleven and Davy was four. Where would they go? And
the tribal elders claimed they needed Lindauzi-speakers. No one else
in Jackson's Tribe knew any Lindauzi. Even if they did, they would never
speak it aloud. It was the speech of nightmares, of the furred monster
aliens, the Human-killers.

Caleb stopped at the street corner. He looked back over his shoulder.
No one. It was too early for anybody but the watchmen to be out, anyway.
He took a deep breath and exhaled in a noisy whoosh. There, he felt
a little better. Imagining Aunt Sara walking back inside and tripping
down the stairs and whacking her head on the wall made him feel a lot
better. Max whimpered again and Caleb let Max down and the dog pressed
close to his feet, tugging at Caleb's boots with his feet.

"It's OK, buddy, go on and run. She never follows us, she just likes
to yell," Caleb said in a low voice. He knelt down to stroke the dog's
rough mottled skin and scratch behind the floppy ears.

"Let's just walk. We'll go back in a while. Let's go this way," Caleb
said and pointed to his left, down Tate Street. He stood, sighing. He
knew Tate Street like the back of his hand. He looked back up McIver:
more completely familiar territory. The old green and white street signs
were gone, carefully stored down in the lower levels of Jackson as prized
relics of the years before the Sickness and the Arrival. Caleb knew,
like every other Jacksoner, every street name by heart. He could name
all the buildings on Tate Street as well; Papa had taught him that,
even though neither Papa nor anybody else knew what had been a particular
building's purpose. To Caleb's left, so the litany went, were The Corner,
Hallmark Cards, The Clothesline, The Exchange, Coffeehouse, Hong Kong,
Sisters, Spoon's Bar, Addam's Bookstore. Across the street were Valencia's,
New York Pizza, Copy-One, and so on.

Caleb could remember all the names, all the way to where Tate ended
at Lee Street. But then he had a perfect memory: he forgot nothing.
He could remember Papa's exact words when he had explained why to Caleb:
The Lindauzi bred Humans, Caleb, for different traits. Perfect memory,
intelligence, longevity, stamina, endurance, strength, endurance, empathy.
I know you don't know what all those words mean yet; I'll explain them
to you in a while. They wanted us to be a certain way for their Grand
Project -- but, never mind that. As for what Hong Kong and Pizza are,
I don't know, son. I do know New York was one of the biggest of the
Human cities before the Lindauzi Arrival. Umium, their capital, is there
now. Remember, I told you they took me there with Phlarx to go to school
and I got very sick....

Caleb remembered, just like he remembered everything. Some things he
wished he could forget, like all the mean things Aunt Sara had said
to him since Papa had left. He shook his head. He couldn't forget, yes,
but then he could think of something else, like following Max down Tate
Street.

Caleb kicked up the leaves as he walked. Tate Street was deep in leaves
and broken branches. Trees grew between what was left of the pavement,
tall pines and oak and maple and sweetgum saplings. Vines crawled in
and out of the empty windows, twining around the shards and spears of
leftover glass. Max was a few feet away, snuffling and sniffing. Probably
another dead rat, Caleb thought. There couldn't possibly be anything
left to find on Tate Street. The tribe had scavenged Tate Street so
many times over the years that there was little, if anything, worth
finding. All the old stores, from The Corner on, were empty, except
for rats' and mice nests, snakes, and thick spider webs. Oh, there were
little things, bits and pieces of glass, metal, plastic, but not much
else.

It was dawn; he could just see the sky beginning to change color, with
streaks of yellow and orange staining the grey-blue. Caleb's stomach
growled. Maybe if he concentrated on looking for something, anything,
he wouldn't feel hungry. He wasn't hoping to find anything really special.
Maybe one of the metal pop-top rings tribal women made into necklaces
or some of the plastic loops which were woven together to make tunics.
Or one of those tiny multi-colored glass balls Papa called marbles,
even though he also called some of the big slabs of smooth white stone
marble, too. Another puzzle from the past. The marbles Caleb liked the
best were one color, and when he held them in his hand, they cast a
shadow of that color, a tiny little blue or green or red shadow.

Mama had worn one of the pop-top necklaces in long graceful loops.
The necklace jingled as she walked. Caleb remembered playing with her
necklace, pulling it slowly through his fingers and then swinging it
back and forth, back and forth.

There was nothing new in the leaves this morning. Caleb wondered what
Aunt Sara was doing. He hoped she had gotten so mad that her face had
turned bright red and exploded, just the way puffballs did when he kicked
them. If Papa were still here, she wouldn't have even dared to be so
mean, Caleb thought. Aunt Sara had hated Papa, but she had been afraid
of him, too. Papa had shielded Caleb and his little brother from the
hard stares and the sharp words. Such things never seemed to bother
Papa as much as they did Caleb. Maybe it was because he was a grown-up.

Papa didn't think so. "Things could be a whole lot worse, son. You
waste too much time worrying over things you can't change -- just like
your mother did."

Papa worried over nothing. Caleb, on the other hand, worried about
everything. He lay awake at night, replaying whatever had happened,
imagining what he wished he could have said or done. It didn't help
that he could replay every conversation verbatim. Papa called Caleb
an old man pretending to be a little boy.

Max waited for Caleb at Addam's Bookstore, the last named building
before the beginning of the tangle of vines and trees marking where
the old houses had once been stood. Max looked up at Caleb: Tooslowletsgoletsgo.
Caleb knew where each house had once been. The trees that grew out of
the old cellars and foundations weren't as tall as those around them.
The other trees were towering, growing up and over the middle of the
old street to create a green-turning-red-and-gold-and-yellow canopy.
Thick vines and briar brambles covered the old rotting boards and broken
bricks. Caleb was sure he might find a few small things in the undergrowth,
but not much. Jacksoners had scavenged here as well.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Caleb had told no one he could hear Max's
doggy thoughts. Or that he was beginning to sense how others felt, see
their feelings shining around them, like a corona of light. Aunt Sara
had been surrounded by a red fire this morning. It had only been in
the past month or so that Caleb had been able to see these personal
coronas. He would be watching someone and there it would be, like flames
flickering around them. And as the light shimmered, Caleb felt how the
other felt; he could almost reach out and touch the anger or fear or
worry or love. Papa could have explained and had even hinted there would
be changes the older Caleb got. Puberty he called it. Caleb didn't know
and he didn't dare ask or tell anyone. It would be only one more thing
for them to hate him for. Besides, he could only see the coronas some
time and then just for a little while. On the other hand, it was getting
easier and easier to understand Max. Feeling how much Max loved him
was almost embarrassing. But, then, he frustrated Max, not being able
to smell or hear well enough smellthisyoucan'tuhyournoseistoolittlejustsniff....

When Caleb came to the next corner, he stopped to pick up Max. Holding
the little dog against his chest, Caleb shuffled his way across Tate
Street and sat down on a low stone wall. He held Max tighter and pressed
his face into the dog. Usually Max hated to be held and would squirm
to get away. Today he seemed content to stay in Caleb's arms IloveyouMasterIloveyouCaleblove....

By now the sun was well above the trees. The blue sky had been scoured
of clouds. Caleb looked up and down the street. Nobody but him and Max.
He wasn't surprised; he knew where everybody was. The night-watchers
had gone inside; the day-watchers were at their posts, gnawing on dried
strips of deer meet and maybe an apple or two. The always-burning fire
beneath the huge black iron cauldron would have been resurrected from
its banked night coals and would be licking around the cauldron's fat
bottom. Inside the cauldron the stew would be beginning to bubble, its
aroma fingering its way throughout Jackson, awakening anyone who might
still be asleep.

I'm so hungry.

Caleb's stomach growled at the thought of the hot stew ladled out into
the rough wooden bowls. One or two of the elders would have one of the
precious plastic bowls. No one dared used one of the even more precious
porcelain bowls. A third elder would be standing in front of the cauldron
to recite the food blessing, calling on Father Art in heaven to make
the food wholesome and good and that it would fill the empty stomachs.

Caleb hoped Aunt Sara would still be so mad she wouldn't be able to
swallow her food. Maybe she would even choke on it. She would be standing
there, talking to anybody who would listen, waving her free arm and
going on and on about what a worthless no-good boy Caleb was and whatever
was she going to do with him and if he wasn't her own sister's son she
would have had the elders expel him long before this why... Then she
would gag and choke and have to spit all her food out, her face red
and wrinkled, the anybody whaling on her back. Father Art, since
you're so angry, be angry at her.

Davy was probably awake now. Caleb winced. He wasn't there and Davy,
who was just four, would have to deal with Aunt Sara all by himself.
She hated Davy only a little less than she hated Caleb.

"Take care of Davy for me, Caleb," Papa had said just before he left.
"Take care of your little brother."

"I will, Papa. I promise."

At least Caleb looked like most Jacksoners. Only his dark blue eyes
marked as different from the other short, dusky-skinned and dark curly-haired
tribe folk. Davy looked more like Papa and Papa was fair, golden hair,
blue eyes that seemed to have a white light behind them, and fair skin,
fairer than even the fairest of the Footwashers and the Covenant-keepers.

Caleb's stomach growled. He knew he should go back up to Jackson. Aunt
Sara was probably already slapping Davy around, making him wait to eat
before her two boys did. And besides, he was really hungry; he should
go home. I don't want to go home, though. Not to stay. I want to
go get Davy and go.... Where? Where could we go and live? Where could
two boys and a dog go around here?

But who said they had to stay around Jackson? Papa had said more than
once the world was a huge place, they had no idea how huge. He had seen
it from space, from the Lindauzi space station when he was a boy. The
world is a great ball, Caleb, a great turning ball. You can't even see
people from up there, just the clouds and the ocean and the land, green
and brown and red and yellow.... Davy and Caleb could go anywhere.
They could go to the summer country, where they would not only be free
of Aunt Sara and her anger, but of the Lindauzi as well. The summer
country, or so the stories went, was a warm, gentle place, by a green-blue
sea, with white, white sand. Fruit with strange and wonderful names
-- oranges, grapefruits, bananas, lemons, tangerines -- grew on trees
with branches close to the ground. You could just reach out your hand
and pick something to eat.

Papa hadn't known where the summer country was or how to get there,
except to go south. "It's just an old story, Caleb," he had said, shaking
his head. Mama had believed it was real. "Walk with the sunset on your
right and the sunrise on your left. When you come to the end of this
land, this earth, take sail over the sea and when you see the white
sand a line against the sky, you will know you are almost there. That's
how to get there," she had said.

Caleb saw something glinting in the sunlight and, still clutching Max,
he leaned down and picked up a pop-top. I wish I could give it to
Mama for her necklace. Aunt Sara had that necklace now, along with
everything else her younger sister had that had been worth saving. After
Papa had disappeared, she had taken everything, telling Caleb boys didn't
need women's things. "Remember her in your dreams," Aunt Sara had snapped.

It had been a dream about Papa that had caused this morning's fight.
Caleb had woken up calling for Papa. Now the dream seemed distant and
faint. Caleb wondered if he had even dreamed it at all. In the dream,
Papa had been somewhere in the east, toward the sunrise, toward the
nearest Lindauzi plantation, Kinsella. In the dream Caleb could see
Papa but he couldn't get to him. And Papa didn't seem to be able to
hear, no matter how loud and long Caleb said his name.

Caleb looked up. Something was in the eastern sky, and it was moving
fast. A cloud, a dark storm cloud? Could a cloud move that fast? Now
he could make it out -- that shape...three shapes. The trees started
shaking and waving as if there had been a sudden wind just as before
a storm. There was a low hum in the air. This wasn't a surprise storm
cloud. These dark shapes in the sky that were getting closer and closer
were Lindauzi airships. All the stories were explicit about their size,
shape, sound, and speed. Caleb had never seen one, but he knew. He watched
as the three moved apart, one staying in the rear, one moving to Caleb's
right, and the third straight toward him. This airship was flying low,
just above the trees, its vibrations knocking them about, showering
the street with even more leaves. The ship cast a long wide shadow.
By now Max was hysterical and Caleb let him go. The little dog ran in
circles, barking at the ship then running back, turning, barking, running
back again badbadbadrunhidebad.

"Come back here, Max," Caleb shouted. The Lindauzi hated dogs; they
killed them when and wherever they saw them. Another story told at night
around the fire, Caleb thought. Was it true? The airship stories were
true, there one was, a half-block away, now moving very slowly, as if
it had all the time in the world. And the other two -- one was gone,
but Caleb could see the other hovering at a distance -- over what? The
Footwashers? The oldest of the Lindauzi stories, of the moment of the
Arrival, over one hundred and fifty years ago, told of men and women
in the biggest and greatest of the old cities, New York, ill and tired,
afraid, the Sickness everywhere. They came out of where they had been
hiding, rubbing their eyes, blinking, to watch a sky filled with dark
shadows, dark descending shadows.

Papa had told Caleb exactly what the Lindauzi looked like. They were
taller than any Human, even the tall hounds and the long-legged racers
they had bred. The Lindauzi were completely covered with fur. Their
hands and feet were clawed. They had muzzles, snouts, instead of noses,
like the tribal dogs, but shorter and blunter. Their fangs were shorter
than any dog's, and they could retract and extend them, like their claws.
Lindauzi eyes were yellow or golden-brown. According to the stories,
the Lindauzi looked like a cross between bears and panthers, and Papa
had agreed. Mama said the Lindauzi were supposed to smell when they
got wet, like dogs, a thick sour smell. Papa had shrugged when Caleb
asked him about the smell. "It never bothered me. They just smelled
when they were wet. And besides, they said we had a smell, too." (Max
had agreed: allyouhaveyourownsmell ilikeyours....)

Once before Papa had left, the Jacksoner hunters had brought home a
massive black bear. Its skin covered an entire wall.

"The Lindauzi are just about as tall," Papa had said as Caleb stroked
the pelt, "but their fur is softer. Much, much softer." Papa had reached
up then with one hand and brushed across the fur with his open fingers.
Caleb had wanted to ask Papa what he was seeing and what he was remembering.
Papa's eyes had gone far away.

Caleb turned himself into a ball, his hands over his head, his feet
tucked under his buttocks, and waited until the shadow was gone and
he could feel the sun again. Maybe he was too small for the Lindauzi
to notice and they would go away and he would be safe. Max kept barking
frantically and pulling at Caleb's tunic sleeve with his teeth dangerdangerbaddangerbadbad....

"Shut up, Max. Please. Shut up," Caleb begged. If the Lindauzi were
listening through their airship, they would both be dead. He looked
up to see the airship down the street, slowly turning toward Jackson.
The trees were still. The last of the sudden leaf shower drifted to
the ground. Where was it going now? Caleb stood. There it was, hovering
above Jackson's white columns and the broken tooth of the old tower.
Flying around the airship, like angry wasps, were the small flyers of
the hounds. Instead of stingers, they were shooting out thin needles
of light.

"Lasers," Caleb whispered. The fiery weapon of the hounds, which meant
their hunterbeasts were with them as well. They were hunting -- not
for rabbits or deer or possums, or even for foxes or bears. From time
to time, as everybody in the tribe knew, the hounds and their beasts
hunted Humans. The hounds and their beasts didn't just chase Humans.
They hunted them down and killed them, cutting off their heads as trophies.
Everyone. Men, women, boys, girls, babies.

Davy.

"Davy. Not Davy."

Caleb took off running. He didn't look back or call for Max; he knew
the little dog was right behind him hurry run runbadobadCalebrunrun.
Up the street, left, then past the kiln. Up a little hill. Through still
dewy grass, stumbling, jumping over broken cement, asphalt, bricks.
Shoving back low branches and saplings. One snapped back and slapped
Caleb in the mouth. He fell hard on the ground. He tasted blood, salty
and warm in his mouth.

Screams. Screams louder than any he had ever heard, different screamers.
Barking that became shrieking. Then one screamer, another, stopped.
Hunterbeasts snarling, growling. Caleb pushed himself up, wiped the
blood off his mouth, started running again. There were the dogs, the
beasts, the dogs biting at the beasts' legs. The hunterbeasts were more
than three times the size of the biggest dogs. They had scaly reptilian
skin and a crest of sharp spikes ran from their heads to their barbed
tails. Giant lizards whose whiplike forked tongues and talons drew blood
and shrieks from the terrified dogs who were all running now, their
attack-lust swallowed by their fear.

"Their tongues are poisonous," Papa had said. "It takes a little
while, but one or two flicks makes you dizzy, slows you down. Three
or four and you are out."

"Max, come back, Max, come back, come baaaaccckkkk!"

ImcomingImcomingCaleb --

It was too late. One of the four beasts' tails snagged Max on his head
and he fell, whimpering hurtCalebhurtstop and before Caleb could
move, the return stroke ripped the dog open. Then another beast, with
one quick taloned slash, finished the job. Caleb felt a doggy tongue
on his face, quick and light, and, just as quickly, it was gone. A few
dogs escaped, howling. The beasts made short work of the rest. Then
the monsters galloped off toward Jackson.

MaxohMax. Davy.

Caleb spit out blood and bark and started running. He had to get there,
he had to get there, now, now, now. He stopped at the gardens, gasping,
wiping more blood. The gardens were in flames and all the trees Caleb
could see were great torches. The heat pushed him back as if it were
a giant hand. Through the smoke and the fire, Caleb could see the motionless
airship and the flyers, dropping to the ground, one by one by one.

"Davvveeeee!"

"Go back, boy, go back, run, they're killing us, run, boy, run...."

Caleb jerked around. It was Ezra, the tanner, pushing his way out of
the smoke.

"Run, get away...."

Ezra staggered and fell, twitched, and was still. Caleb saw a hole
in his back, where the leather had been burned away; he smelled the
burnt flesh. Ezra's tunic was soaked in blood. The flesh on one side
of his face and up and down his legs had been torn and ripped. Beast
tongue marks made angry red stripes all over the man. For a brief, brief
moment, Ezra's corona glowed bright yellow, then an intense hot white,
and, then, like Max's ghost tongue, was gone.

Caleb reached out his hand toward the man and froze again as another
scream came from Jackson. "I'm sorry, Ezra, I'm sorry, but I have to
go find Davy," he whispered and turned to run again but met another
man, Micah, the fisherman, swaying out of the smoke. Blood covered Micah's
hands and face, as if he were wearing red gloves and a red mask. Micah
fell beside Ezra, making a dull thud that Caleb almost couldn't hear
over the sounds of the fire and beasts.